


Shakespeare

by XxWolfgirl2846xX



Category: American Horror Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 17:32:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12562564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxWolfgirl2846xX/pseuds/XxWolfgirl2846xX
Summary: Tate just killed 15 people. He liked them. That’s why he killed them.He helped them leave this godforsaken place.Now there’s just one more person left.





	Shakespeare

As you sit at you desk, writing a history paper about the different types of propaganda used in World War Two you hear your door slam open. 

Tate stands in the opening, panting. "Tate.. what did you do?" His clothes were bloodstained and his eyes dull as if he was a dead man risen from his grave.  
He looks at you. But seems to look at nothing at all. Concern and a hint of curiosity turn to fear as his eyes focus. "Tate?" He walks from the door to your desk in just a few big strides. Your heart hammers in your chest but your body doesn't move. 

You know about Tate having issues. You know about the abuse he went through. You know about most things.  
But you didn't know about the look in his eyes when he was about to kill. He had told you about it. How it took 7 people to keep him on the ground so he couldn’t rip that bitch her eyes out of her head. 

It scared you, yes. But something kept you still. A secret desire, formed by years of hidden tears and unheard screams. That only started to falter recently as you moved here. 

Tate came closer. You could see the gun in his pocket as he pressed you up against the wall. Hoping that he wouldn't use that. You didn't want another disgusting scar on your body when your family buried you. 

His hands come up and wrap around your neck. He presses in.  
At first there is no difference between a cut off air supply and the suffocating world you already know. But slowly it changes. You feel warmer. Your chest becomes tighter and your hand comes up to grasp at Tate's wrist. You don't want to stop him. Guess it’s just a reflex. 

Tate's expression is contoured with struggle. You look up into his eyes. Forcing him to meet your gaze. And after a few seconds. He does. The moment his eyes meet yours though, they change.  
Empty darkness changes into something else. Something that makes your heart twist painfully. 

In his eyes you see him, breaking. Tears start to gather as his grip slowly loses it's strength. His hands start shaking And sobs rack his body. His touch falters completely and his head ducks down to your chest, pressing close. You gasp, your lungs filling with air as your arms wrap around him. One hand already sliding through his hair in attempt to calm him. You keep him close while slowly pulling him toward the bed. You kiss his head as you lay down with him, whispering soothing words of comfort. 

In that moment he seemed so small, so broken, so sad. And you wished you could take it all off of his shoulders. 

“I killed them. I helped them. They’re better now. I wanted to make it better for you. But I couldn’t let you go. I’m too selfish to let you go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He cries, hugging you tightly. The warmth from his body seemingly seeping into your own. 

This was Tate, your Tate. The 17- year old boy who just murdered 15 people. And you loved him. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” As he sobs again and again you shush him lovingly. This pattern eventually turning into a sort of humming.

Slowly but surely, Tate calms down. His sobs become less violent. And after a while the tears have stopped entirely. Once you notice his trembling has ceased as well, you realize he fell asleep. As exhausted as he must be you leave him to sleep.

As quietly as possible you crawl out of your bed and make your way downstairs. Taking a bottle of water out of the fridge you notice police cars. They are banging on miss Langdon’s door. Then you hear the screech tires and the bright white letters appear into your line of sight.

You watch as Constance shakes her head and proceeds to point toward your house. The cop looks, and his gaze meets yours briefly before he rushes to your doorstep. 

You drop the bottle in your race toward the door. Where you pull up a chair to block it before running toward the stairs where you pull all kinds of things to the ground, in meager hopes of slowing them down. You hear the front door slam and Tate calls out to you. 

You can hear the men stumbling around as you reach your room where Tate has just moved to step out of the door. You push him back inside. Putting the chair from your desk under the doorknob you back up once more. “Tate, pull the closet in front of the door so they can’t get in through the bathroom.” He quickly does as told and moves further back in the room while you pull your bed so the headboard covers the window. 

You can hear the men trying to break down the door and your heart hammers in your chest. 

Then it happens. The door is wrecked open and the men flood in, Guns pointed at you and Tate. There are about a dozen of them in the room standing in a formation of a half- moon. 

You can hear constance in the background, calling out for Tate. But the men don’t listen. You take a step toward Tate but one member of the swat violently jerks his weapon toward you. “Don’t even think about it!” He looks You right in the eye as if compelling you to not take another step. Of course he should’ve known better. This only translates to a challenge in your head. Most of the men  
Are now fixated on Tate and through the tension you slowly shuffle toward him. 

Then you notice. At least three of the men bare a determination in their eyes. Not to have him arrested, but to have him killed. 

You lunge forward. In front of Tate. The bullets break your flesh. You gasp as you stumble against Tate's chest. Suddenly tears are spilling over his cheeks and you can hear him scream. Breath has been taken from you. Tate's arms wrap around your waist. You can feel the bullets inside you. Damaging more of your body with every little move. Your face is contoured with pain to any witness, but to you; It’s not really there. It’s more annoying than hurtful, really. Your head becomes dizzy. And your eyes loose focus every now and then. You taste blood in your mouth. It coats the inside of your mouth and spills over to color the inside your lips in a crimson color. You smile up at Tate. "I'll wait" you whisper before you break your gaze with him. You loose balance as you tumble forward and you legs finally give out. You feel Tate laying you down as softly as his shaking hands manage to. "No, no please."  
The annoying pain has faded to nearly nothing. The taste of blood is there. But then again, not really. The only thing that is really there is Tate. His dark brown eyes, frantically flicking over yours, as if desperately searching for something, anything. He fades out slowly. His eyes remaining till the last second before darkness consumes your vision and your heart No longer has a beat

Tate swallows shakily before rising to his feet. Tears still glide over his face. He looks at the men standing with their guns aimed for his chest. He can see fear in their eyes. And shocked confusion. Most likely because to them, he is a psychopath and thus incapable of feeling anything toward others. They think they know it all, but they don’t. They know nothing. 

He smiles at the men as he brings his hand up to his head and motions him shooting his own brain out. But the screaming of "bang!" Is what sets one officer off to fire. The others follow quickly. Tate drops to the ground. Casting one last look to the one he couldn't kill out of pure selfishness, you. His hand falls to his side where it meets with yours, just your fingers touching. Tate glances once more at your face. A single drop of blood slowly making it's way down your face from the corner of your mouth as you stare up. He doesn't hear the question that he is asked. 

The focus in his dark eyes dies out slowly. And all that is left is a very Shakespeare scene. Two damaged lovers, embracing a cold death, together. 

 

Tate appears next to you and stares as his body is dragged away. You don’t question how you’re still standing here. 

You take his hand in yours. Noticing that this doesn't feel much different from being alive at all. You lay your head on his shoulder and watch as men drag your body away as well. Talking about how stupid you must be to “pull some fucked up shit like that” as they put it. But you just smile. Because they'll never understand anyways.


End file.
